


Farewell to Faith

by ToBebbanburg



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:13:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25405195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToBebbanburg/pseuds/ToBebbanburg
Summary: This was so close to being "5 times Nicky killed Joe and 1 time he didn't" but you know what, I decided to write something serious for once. (But it is essentially that)
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 24
Kudos: 355





	Farewell to Faith

The first time it happens, Nicolo doesn’t even believe he had died. He falls on the battlefield one moment and comes round the next, attributing the flashing faces he had seen behind his eyelids to nothing more than a combination of heat and fatigue.

There’s a body lying on top of him, possibly the man who had knocked him out. He’s dead now, impaled on Nicolo’s sword as they fell, and Nicolo pulls his blade out from the man with a sickening sound as he struggles to stand up. The body falls and rolls onto its back as he stands, and he realises with a dull jolt that it’s the man whose face he had seen whilst unconscious.

It’s not so strange, Nicolo tells himself as he struggles to find his bearings amid the chaos of battle. His brain clearly latched onto the last thing he saw before he was knocked out. What was stranger were the two women he had also seen, women he was certain he had never met. The flashes had been brief, nothing more than a hazy flickering that was over before it had even begun, and he decides they must be the faces of saints, spurring him on through his battles.

A scimitar comes flying through the air towards him and he parries on reflex, feeling oddly fresh after his spate of unconsciousness. He slices through the neck of the man holding the scimitar, throwing himself back into the chaos, and doesn’t notice that the body of the man he had killed is gone.

The light fades and both sides retreat, and as Nicolo bows his head in prayer that night he forgets the strange occurrences of the day. It was nothing.

***

Nothing turns into something the next day. They’re fighting again, still locked in eternal combat as they try to breach the city walls. The days were so similar they had begun to run into each other, an endless cycle of fighting and sleeping and killing and praying. They’ve been placing this particular city under siege for days now, but the war, the war has been going on for months. Nicolo fights almost on instinct now, barely registering the faces of the men he cuts down. He’s deep in the midst of the battle when he sees the man.

It takes him a moment to recognise him, but when he does its with a startling clarity. It’s the man he had killed the other day, the man who had fallen on his sword in his own attempts to kill Nicolo. There isn’t a single scratch on him.

As the two sides clash outside the city walls, Nicolo finds himself fighting the man. Their blades bite against each other again and again, over and over, until Nicolo finds an opening and stabs the man in the gut. The man staggers, blood bubbling from the corners of his mouth, and with a last surge of strength throws himself at Nicolo and sinks a dagger into his neck.

The pain is excruciating as they fall to the ground together, and this time, this time Nicolo knows he’s dying.

The dreams he has as his eyes flutter closed are more vivid than before. The two women. The man. The man who should be dead. The man who _must_ be dead now, along with Nicolo himself.

Only he’s not. Neither of them are dead. They both rise, and regard each other warily. Neither of them speaks, or moves to fight the other. The fighting carries on around them yet does not seem to touch them. It’s with an odd sense of calm that they part ways, fleeing into the midst of the battle in opposite directions.

Nicolo can’t fight any longer, and collapses mere minutes later. He’s not dead, not injured, just unable to continue. Somehow he makes it back to camp long after the fighting is over for the day, barely registering the concerned looks and questions from his brothers in arms.

He doesn’t know what’s happening to him. How he could die yet stand again. He would be tempted to call it a miracle were it not for the other man, the enemy, falling and rising again in the same way. He hopes he’s mistaken, hopes it had been the heat playing tricks on his mind.

But the next day, he sees the man again.

The man kills him, again. He gets his hands around Nicolo’s throat and chokes him, shouting something in a language he can’t understand. Nicolo manages to thrust his sword deep into the man’s side, but the man still manages to choke him with the last of his strength.

This time, Nicolo tries to focus on his dreams, searching for some sort of answer. They’re still there: the warrior women and the man. The man he has killed again and again. He’s smiling in these dreams, happy, surrounded by family sharing food and laughter. He couldn’t be further from the monster Nicolo had been led to believe he was and he felt sick, not for the first time since his crusade had begun. He has long since learnt to view the Muslims as demons, as something less than men. It was easier to cut them down if they seemed less than human, but in those short dreams between death and life, Nicolo curses himself, curses his faith for blinding him. They were no more monsters than he was.

When he wakes there are tears on his cheeks, and the man was nowhere to be seen.

Nicolo hates him for it. Hates the man for making him question this war, for making him doubt himself and his faith. He fans the hatred in his heart, grows the spark into a flame that fuels him as he rushes forward the next day, reckless, ignoring everyone around him as he lets his sword lead him to the man.

He is so consumed by his anger and frustration that he doesn’t notice the dagger in the man’s hand until it is too late. Until they are both bleeding out together outside the walls of the city, fate drawing them together yet again.

He’s used to this now. Used to it as much as he hates it, as much as he doesn’t understand it.

He sees the women again. Flashes of how they fight together, how they laugh together, how they love together. Something in his heart aches for what they have, a stark contrast to the dark path he has found himself bound to. Had they started off as he and this man had? Had they killed each other over and over? Did they grow weary of it, as he did now?

“You think this is what your god wants.” The man says as Nicolo wakes up. His voice is quiet, soft, almost as if he understands. “But what god can want the deaths of so many innocents?”

“You speak Italian?” Nicolo asks, surprise outweighing his caution. It’s dusk, the men around them collecting their dead and making their way back to their respective camps, and he feels oddly peaceful.

“A little.” The man says.

This is the first time Nicolo has really looked at him without the rage of battle clouding his eyes, and he’s dismayed at how handsome he finds the other man. He’s dirty, and bloodied, and _has just killed him_ but God help him Nicolo has never found a man so beautiful before.

“Do you know what’s happening to us?” the man asks him, and Nicolo can feel his resolve crumble. He can’t do this, he can’t talk to this man any longer, and he pushes himself to his feet and runs.

***

He tells himself it’s not cowardice that keeps him towards the rear of the fighting the next day. He’s never been afraid of battle, never been afraid to die even before he realised he couldn’t stay dead.

He’s afraid of himself. Afraid that if he comes across the man again, as he knows he will, he won’t be able to kill him. Won’t be able to look into the deep brown eyes of the enemy and want to do anything that could hurt him. He distracts himself by killing the few men who make in through the front line of fighting, but finds himself losing heart. His faith has fled him. He doesn’t know what’s happening but he can’t die and the enemy shouldn’t be the enemy and nothing makes sense. He’s broken.

Despite his best efforts he still sees the man. He’s distant, far away close to the city gates, but Nicolo recognises him instantly. One of Nicolo’s countrymen has him disarmed, backing him up against the wall, a sword at his throat. Something catches in his throat as he watches the man go down, a sword slashed across his neck, and Nicolo retches. He doesn’t retreat; he can’t retreat, but the fight leaves him and he remains defensive the rest of the day, never initiating a fight unless he has to.

It’s only after, as he tries to sleep with the cries of wounded men echoing around him that he realises he was scared. Scared that any other blade other than his would kill the man for good. The relief he feels when he sees the man alive the next day back on the battlefield is so twisted it’s almost sickening.

He is the enemy. Nicolo should want him to stay dead. And yet he can’t.

They don’t kill each other that day. They look each other in the eye and move away, as if they had never crossed paths.

***

The following day they take the city. Finally. The women and infants are taken from their homes, the children forced to watch as their mothers and sisters are distributed amongst the men as if they were little more than livestock. It makes Nicolo feel sick. These people did not ask for this war, did not deserve their treatment simply because they did not worship the same god.

He roams the city, desperately searching for somewhere he can find peace, somewhere he can ignore the shouts and cries and screams. Instead he finds the man. Of course he does.

The man is lying in a pool of his own blood in the middle of a street, scimitar still in hand. His arms are splayed out away from him in a cruel imitation of a crucifix, and Nicolo hurts as he has never hurt before as he looks down at him.

Christ had died for the sins of man. Had died so they could all be free and this, this is what men did with that freedom. Without a second thought Nicolo hoists the man’s body up on his shoulders, takes him to the first empty house he finds and lays him down to rest on the bed.

He watches as the man heals, as his wounds close over and his eyelids flutter until he stirs, staring wildly around the room until his gaze comes to rest on Nicolo.

“Shh.” Nicolo puts a finger to his lips. “They will hear you. And they will kill you.”

The man smiles somehow, despite the strange and bloody situation they find themselves in.

“And you no longer wish my death?” He asks, his thick accent achingly familiar even after so short a time.

“I don’t know.” Nicolo replies. “I... I no longer know what to think.”

The man reaches out and takes Nicolo’s hand in his, his touch calloused and yet strangely gentle. It’s the smallest of intimacies, and yet Nicolo feels the world around him melt away and he knows he was right to pull this man to safety, right to condemn the looting and rioting, right to question the Church.

“We should go.” He says, unsure of where the words came from. All he knows is that he cannot stay, and nor can this man.

***

They leave in the night. The man’s name is Yusuf, Nicolo finds out, and together they flee the city. Nicolo had taken as much food and water as he dared, wrapping it all up the surcoat he no longer felt he could wear. They didn’t speak a word as they stole horses and rode hard and fast through the night, somehow knowing when to follow and when to slow without ever talking to each other.

It was only when they found shelter amongst some trees as the sun began to rise that they spoke.

“What now?” Nicolo asks. He feels as though he is in a dream, as if his mind hasn’t fully caught up to the fact that he has abandoned his brothers, abandoned his faith over Yusuf.

“We find the women.” Yusuf replies, sounding as confident as Nicolo wishes he felt. “After that... I don’t know. But we must find them.”

Nicolo agrees: besides Yusuf, the images of the two women are the only thing that seems clear to him. The only thing that seems real.

He dreams of them as he rests, his head cushioned in Yusuf’s lap as the other man takes watch. He hasn’t been back to Italy in years, and yet that morning he feels as if he has finally found home.

***

They travel for days. They travel for weeks. They search for the women in their dreams and know they cannot stop until they have found them. They talk, and sleep, and occasionally fight, and Nicolo begins to feel as if he’s known Yusuf for years. The other man makes him laugh, somehow, despite the torment and the upheaval. He comforts him when he cries, he shares whatever food he barters for or steals, he even gives him quiet when he senses Nicolo needs it most.

Nicolo can’t work out what he feels about the other man. He looks at Yusuf and still partly sees the enemy, the man he was taught to hate, but he also sees the man who laughed and loved with his family, who made him question his faith and blind obedience to the Church.

He looks at him and sees the two warrior women, unafraid and unashamed of their love, and he _wants_. He feels drawn to the other man in a way he can’t describe, he can’t stop watching him, can’t stop thinking about him and it’s driving him mad. His world has been torn apart, and in this new life, this new beginning, all he sees is Yusef.

It doesn’t take him long to realise Yusuf feels the same, the other man the first to speak aloud the thoughts he knew they both had. It had been more than a relief to hear Yusuf spill his mind, and Nicolo felt like he had been waiting forever for Yusuf to tentatively reach out to cup his face in his hand.

“I don’t know what this.” Nicolo says thickly, his heart pounding in his chest as Yusuf’s fingers tenderly trace the lines of his face.

“Neither do I.” Yusuf admits. “Yet I am more sure of this than anything else that has happened.”

As Yusuf brings his lips to meet his, Nicolo’s only thought is that he wholeheartedly agrees. Nothing has ever felt so perfect before, so _right_. He had been full of holy conviction when he went to war, but the conviction he felt now was all his own. His heart wants it and his body needs it, and as Yusef’s tongue flicks across his lower lip Nicolo sighs, and gives himself over completely.

Kissing Yusuf was like finding water in the desert, and what starts as a gentle caress of lips and tongue soon turns into something more forceful, heat steadily rising in Nicolo’s body as he pulls Yusuf closer still. He’s hard, they both are, and Nicolo doesn’t give it a second thought as he dips his hand down to feel how much Yusuf needs him. They bring each other to release with desperate hands without ever breaking the kiss, and Nicolo knows that there can never be anyone else for him after this.

“It is a good thing I cannot die, for I am surely destined for hell after this.” Nicolo jokes after, as he lays his head down on Yusuf’s chest. Even as he speaks, he finds he no longer believes his own words, and hasn’t for a while. He can no longer believe that killing Muslims is just and loving men is wrong. Loving Yusuf. It’s a relief, he thinks, to no longer be burdened by sin.

“I will not let you be taken to hell.” Yusuf murmurs, shifting slightly so that he can comb his fingers through Nicolo’s hair. Whether Yusuf cares about him enough to also care about his faith, or whether he simply does not believe in the Christian hell enough to be worried by it does not matter. What matters was the meaning behind the words, the emotion that was clear even as the foreign language catches in Yusuf’s throat.

Nicolo doesn’t dream of the women that night. He doesn’t even dream of the life he has left behind, or the horrors of war. He only dreams of Yusuf, and for the first time in forever, he dreams peacefully.

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all heard Aurelio Voltaire's "Crusade"? Big mood while writing this.


End file.
